


Iniquitous Stars

by Cultivation



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Assisted Suicide, BAMF Diana (Wonder Woman), Bittersweet, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Character Death, Death, Dubious Morality, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Joker (DCU) Angst, Joker (DCU) Has Issues, Joker (DCU)'s Name is Jack, Long-Suffering Jim Gordon, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Moral Ambiguity, Multiverse, No Batfamily (DCU), Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Diana (Wonder Woman), References to Depression, Secret Relationship, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24514330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cultivation/pseuds/Cultivation
Summary: “You die.” There was a moment of silence. Rather promptly, it was broken by Joker’s laughter. Bruce was far from amused. He was trembling.“Is that… is that really so bad?”A three-part story of love, hate, death, and the fragile thread that binds them together.(Check the tags for important trigger-warnings.)
Relationships: Ares & Diana (Wonder Woman), James Gordon Jr. & Jim Gordon, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	Iniquitous Stars

# — I —

Gordon calls him around two in the morning. Bruce isn’t mad and, if he is, he’d never show it. The guilt still cripples him and keeps his mouth tightly shut in the face of anything too raw. He has known Gordon for a long time now; their shared rings of restlessness and desensitized outlooks often make it a breeze to avoid the elephant in the room with extreme effectiveness. The police department doesn’t shine the signal anymore often than it did after Barbara left him. Bruce figures Gordon would rather let himself rot than act as if it had occurred at all.

Around one month back, after Barbara had moved out of their apartment, she left Gordon a note. Normally, Bruce would have no concept of this information. It was only through the other cop gossip that it was divulged at all. The contents of the note aren’t exactly what Bruce cared about. The only thing Bruce knew is when Gordon told him upfront; he stone-faced it— only releasing the real emotions in pauses and sighs— and gave Bruce a location. Barbara was going to Chicago alone. Her things were packed into a truck before Gordon came home that night. All he got was the note; by the department gossip, that was the only word he ever got before she left. 

Atop the G.C.P.D., Bruce stands across from Gordon. He looks lost in every sense of the word. The expression on his gaunt features is tight and timid, afraid to show too much helplessness. The brisk air causes his tattered trench coat to whip at his shins. His glasses are smudged with fingerprints and his hair is an oily mess of red. He scratches every so often at the bridge of his nose. Gordon’s eyes avoid Bruce’s with perfect precision. Purposefully, Bruce avoids making eye contact after a certain point anyway. The action goes entirely unnoticed as Gordon continues to stare off into the void-like skyline. Bruce remains standing a few feet behind him, resisting the urge to analyze him any further.

“Even when she doesn’t answer me… she always calls the kids. There’s always _something_.” Bruce knows better than anyone that Gordon hates being in this position. He doesn’t want to be seen as anything else but a cop (and even being _human_ comes second in that regard). Being part of a missing person case or owning up to the title of “Clingy Ex-Husband” is certainly not on his list. But, Barbara hasn’t called in five days. Gordon became worried and, more than anyone, he trusts Bruce. He owes him this favor— this reassurance— after all these years. “I’m not asking you to go out there and do any kind of investigative shit. Just… just call around for me. You have a helluva lot more creditability than I do with her.” He laughs bitterly and pulls out a cigarette from inside his coat pocket. He places the end in his mouth as he pulls out the lighter; once the tip is lit, he takes an extended drag. A few moments later, a waft of smoke releases from Gordon’s mouth and into the air. He pockets the lighter.

“I’ll check on her, Gordon.” For the first time that night, Gordon makes eye contact with Bruce. He turns his neck in his direction and mutters something akin to “thank you” under his breath. The rest of the night Bruce spends surveying back alleys and taking out petty purse-snatchers. Something irks him about the whole situation. Intuition has never been something Bruce wholly trusts yet, he cannot seem to remove his own paranoia. Part of it is his attachment to Gordon but part of it is something he can’t quite name. It is as if he already knows her fate before he has even made any attempt to check up on Barbara. It renders him speechless for the remainder of the night, mouth too dry to utter a single a word. When he returns to the cave, he slumps down into the chair to assess his wounds with the tired kind of familiarity he has become accustomed to. Bruce barely notices his eyes closing before he is taken forcibly into a death-like sleep. 

He awakes to Alfred hovering over him and ushering him to change out of the suit. Before he can fully feel it, hot water is prickling against his skin in a continuous flow. The water pressure no longer matters to his battered body; all of the senses are dulled direct result of his nights. Concealer hides the dark rings around his eyes while greasepaint hides the weakness when he dons the Batsuit. Food is served on a silver platter only for Bruce to scarf it down with little care of its contents. He doesn’t necessarily feel what it tastes like anyway. That faded away with time too. He rises from the dinner table in a suit and tie. The drive to Wayne Enterprises feels drawn out, with reporters flanking him and no comments being given. Bruce has endured this ordeal his entire life and yet it never relents in stealing his patience and energy. Once inside, coworkers and lower level representatives flank him too. He smiles and wears it until he is alone, sitting behind a glass desk in a vapid office. It leaves his mind to wander, with nothing to do but sit and wait. Every so often, someone will talk to him about stocks and ask him to sign papers. He does what is asked of him without question; he plays a delicate and refined orchestration with every document signed and every meeting attended. It is practiced and consistent. He smiles, he laughs, and he cares. That is all that is asked of him. 

He returns as soon as it is applicable to the Manor. Bruce hates changing in the office. He hates the atmosphere and reality that surround him there. Within the cave, he doesn’t have to worry about his mind wandering where it isn’t supposed to. He is focused and precise in his intentions. As such, he goes to the computer and pulls up the file on Barbara Kean. His findings are unsatisfying, to say the least. He treads closely to her whereabouts and finds that her job has marked her missing as well. No one has seen her since the seventh of February. She was reported missing before Gordon’s suspicions were realized— two _days_ before. This makes her disappearance a full week before Gordon's call. Her last seen appearance on record is within a small diner in Chicago where she waitresses. Bruce quickly walks towards the armored jet in hot pursuit of the lead. He had a premonition that this might happen. Distantly, he is reminded of his own intuition and his decision to go against it. This decision hasn’t helped him in the past few years. The Bat-Wing slowly lifts off the cave floors with little turbulence. Bruce finds piloting to be a fairly mind-numbing experience. It keeps his more disturbing thoughts at bay and keeps the goal is in clear, pristine focus. 

Before he knows it, the plane is soaring through the Gotham skyline. The city below glitters with lights beyond the smog that envelops it. Stars are vacant from Gotham and Bruce, in all of his time alive, has only seen the stars on a few occasions while in space with the League. Shortly after the League disbanded, Diana had told Bruce in confidence about her homeland of Themyscira. The conversation was in part due to her appreciation of Bruce’s devotion to Gotham and part of her own reluctance to agree with Bruce’s departure from the team. Diana wanted to leave and she never had to tell Bruce for him to figure it out on his own; so, instead, she relented all of the things about her homeland. Beaches with an enveloping and healthy ocean, monuments of breathtaking magnitude, and life that grew without boundaries were all pivotal to its thriving prosperity. She had described the island in such an intimate way that it made him want to come with her. That thought was short-lived, as is every thought that pertains to his own enjoyment of life. Bruce has no right to stand beside her or to even dare to dream of her homeland. He has done enough damage that she’ll never know; he’d be a beast to bring her pain in this universe too.

The plane takes two hours and thirty minutes to arrive in Chicago. He touches down in a private Wayne Enterprises landing pad several miles outside of the city. Bruce emerges from the plane with a flick to his cape. He takes the Bat-Cycle to the metropolitan area and enters through back ways and sewers systems, leaving the cycle in the sewer and going on foot to Kean’s apartment. The complex is older, with only a few windows lit. Bruce sticks to the shadows and grapples up to the balcony of her apartment. With ease, Bruce breaks the lock of the door and enters. Police tampering is evident around the entire premises. Bruce thinks he’ll be hard-pressed to find anything of use if such is the case but he traverses on regardless. The apartment is more like a flat. A small kitchenette and bedroom occupy the same room, a mattress cramped up against the window for space. Bruce takes note of every little detail in his mind. The way the sheets are made— or rather, how they are _unmade—_ suggests restlessness and a struggle. Upon the ground is an evidence marker near the bedside. Bruce steps closer and analyzes the kitchenette counter. He discovers a dirt-ringed stain upon its tacky surface. Bruce looks over the counter to find a few more evidence markers. He reaches out and drags a gloved finger against the surface. Tiny fragments of teal-tinted glass appear against the finger.

_A vase, shattered in the struggle. But how?_

Bruce looks at the rest of the evidence markers that litter the floor. Judging by the direction in which the glass fragmented, he determines there is another clue yet to be found. Dried blood stains mark the textured walls in small splatters. He collects the blood with a dampened cotton swab and stores it away in his belt for later analysis in the cave. All around, the apartment appears bare bones. Barbara had been living here for just over three weeks. Bruce inspects the sheets for any other bodily fluids. None are found. He stares at the wall the mattress hugs against then promptly goes to it for proper inspection. Upon the wall, a dent appears. It isn’t a bullet hole or even remarkable in the slightest. A scratch of the paint and a small circular crater in the wall. Cautiously, he allows his attention to drift away from the wall and to the ground. The faux wood flooring has a thin trail of blood that leads past the kitchenette. Bruce follows it carefully as it leads to the bathroom. The trail is made up of small dots, likely drips from an open wound. Once more, a struggle seems apparent; scratches on the wooden floor indicate a sharply heeled shoe, most likely pointed pumps by the thinness of the marks. 

Bruce carefully enters the bathroom. For a few torturous moments, he remains completely still. The pause is one on behalf of Gordon’s sake; he doesn’t want to give him this news. Spread across the black and white tiles is an expansive stain where blood once was. The pinkish tiles touched make his vision unfocused, roaming to look anywhere else. Eventually, after he forces himself to stare the stain down, Bruce finds the will to bend down and collect more swabs. The smell of copper permeates through his cowl. His eyes search around the small room for any other signs. Flooded with unease, Bruce’s sight falls upon the shower. It is small and made of a plastic glass. It isn’t quite transparent or opaque; it is a disturbingly vague mixture of the two. Bruce, for the first time in a long time, fears what lies beyond it. His own psyche won’t be the only one this burden will bear. He reaches out and slides the shower door to the left. 

Inside, the shower is seemingly normal. Despite it, the tension doesn’t release its grip on him. Bruce analyzes every little detail about the shower. The drain is clear of any tampering and the tiled wall’s loose tiles hid no clues. Bruce turns to the niche. Sitting within the cranny, a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap lay dry and untouched. He lifts one of the bottles with caution. Beneath where it had rested, darkened blood is dried in the letter _J_. Involuntarily, his body shudders. It looks all too close to _his_ handwriting. It is scratchy and rough; only Bruce can know in a single letter who drew it. The letter is small and leads Bruce to believe no less than a pinprick of blood was used. Bruce reaches up to the side of his cowl and snaps a screenshot. He sterilizes another swab and takes a sample of the blood. 

He prays it isn’t who he thinks it is. They made a deal regarding The Gordons a long time ago. Bruce has traveled through the multiverse. He knows what _he_ has done to other Barbara Gordons; he didn’t want to take any chances. But, he couldn’t have anticipated this. Barbara Kean shouldn't be of interest to him. Bruce walks out of the bathroom without a second glance and reenters the living room. His footsteps leave a more harrowing echo upon each and every step across the floorboards. He knows he isn’t being watched yet the more he resides here the more that doting intuition creeps in. Bruce spots across where the vase had sat and to the wall at the far side of the room, the same wall that the dent is upon. He finds himself rushing towards the wall and praying that his eyes deceived him. The dent is just the same as it was before but the weight it carries causes Bruce’s body to halt all functions. By anyone else’s eye, it could be mistaken for a larger nail; by anyone else’s guess, something beautiful— a picture or a painting— once hung there. But Bruce knows the difference. The difference is catastrophic. 

He has to call Gordon.

* * *

Arkham is his mother’s maiden name and the asylum is inherently Bruce’s heritage. Within its walls are the results of his personal efforts to clean the streets of Gotham. As much as he tries to distance himself from the place, he must keep returning to it. Rarely, while in attendance, he’ll be reminded of his mother and father. From the vague and blurry memories he still retains of Martha, Bruce can picture two things: a blinding smile and a pair of red mule heels. His father is more distinct than his mother, but not by much. Thomas’ golden wristwatch and his thick mustache are the traits Bruce remembers most. These distinct visual quirks paint them in a vivid enough piece for Bruce to idolize. Moments can pass by for hours in the asylum with these traits on the mind; he cannot imagine what days feel like here. When Bruce stays here, he’ll start to see glimmers of red shoes or faint imitations of clock hands ticking. These things follow him— in _and_ out of the asylum— and Bruce predicts they will follow him to his grave. Some days, he wishes his memories would all be erased and forgotten. But, his memories are what have led him down this path. His memories are all he has left. Some days, Bruce wishes he never became The Batman. 

As always, Arkham stands tall in the face of Bruce’s presence. Stone cracked and aged tells the tale of many lost souls. If Bruce listens close enough, he’ll be able to hear their cries throughout all of time and space. It is a sound he’d never wish upon his greatest enemy. He walks forward through the iron gates and towards the grand entrance. The echoes of screams grace his senses first. Laughter is heard too but much weaker in the midst of the agonized cries for help. Bruce never adheres to those calls. They’re never coming from the innocent. Every living being that resides within the cells of Arkham Asylum is a prisoner first, a patient last. Doctors and staff tend to view it as the opposite but Bruce knows the truth. The receptionist at the front desk sips idly from her coffee cup as Bruce passes, eyeing him curiously as he steps towards the cells. Security does not budge or move in his— _The_ _Batman’s—_ presence. 

Gordon hung up once Bruce had told him the news. He made no attempt to call him back. Bruce understood it. He isn’t really worried about what Gordon could be doing right now. He hadn’t told him certain things for that reason. He omitted anything that led to a suspect for fear of his immediate reaction. He imagines how little Barbara or James Jr. must be feeling right now. Rather instantly, the image makes Bruce sick to his stomach. Both of Gordon’s children were older now but it doesn’t make it any less disturbing. The debt he owes them is one that none of them will ever truly understand. That is by his own design. He cannot possibly explain the things he has seen in other parallel worlds, nor can he explain the things he has done to prevent those things from happening on his own. All he can do is take the actions to prevent it. 

The asylum is lowly lit and ever flickering. The guarded bulbs cast an unpleasant shade of yellow light throughout the hallway. The individual cells are confined to one bed and toilet. His presence is spread through whispers and shouts across cells. Little barred windows show faces or the absence of faces. One man whispers obscenities while another pleads for The Bat to free him. An inmate charges up and slams his body against his cell as Bruce passes. He doesn’t flinch; he doesn’t acknowledge it. To any naive bystander, he would appear emotionless and cold. But, he has walked this very path too many times to feel anything any more. He has seen what they can do and, in his good conscious, Bruce will not allow them to walk free. Even if those screams echo the very same sound of his mother when she was shot. Even if they cry the same way Bruce did in the alleyway.

His cell is at the end of the hallway. He returned to Arkham two days ago at the begrudging acceptance of Arkham’s older staff. Bruce caught him wreaking havoc at an amusement park. There are no cameras in his cell, or really any cell in Arkham. It is a policy— enacted by Cobblepot around the year Bruce first donned the cowl— that manages to make things easier for Bruce’s interrogations but easier for the inmates to escape. Usually, to counter the fears of _abuse_ at The Bat’s hands, there will be a staff member observing interrogations outside the cell. The Arkham staff never bother monitoring their meetings anymore. Volunteer staff fear the very mention of him and outright refuse to supervise him. Most of the doctors prefer patients they _can_ fix and don’t bother with him whatsoever. Occasionally, every so often, a big shot will waltz in and try to be the one that “cures” him; they never last very long. Bruce arrives in front of his cell and peers through the small barred window.

Joker is seated at a metal table, flipping through a pack of cards with bony fingers. His hair is jet straight when he is confined in Arkham. Bruce notices these little details, much to his own horror, more often than he’d like. Yet, it is no secret that Joker preps himself thoroughly before any of their encounters. Curling his hair is the least offensive act on the long list Bruce has been witness to. His longer bangs are tucked behind his ears, juniper hair parted methodically dead center, and his unnatural skin is absent of makeup. Doctors refuse to give it to him anymore after the last escape attempt ended with a mascara wand jabbed into a staff’s eye. Without the painted face, Joker is less theatrical. It is easier to think of him as a cold-blooded killer. It is harder to remove him from his crimes; here, he is forcibly humanized. Silently— _selfishly—_ Bruce appreciates this effect. Soon, the illusion will be ruined with one closer look. As the door buzzes and Bruce walks inside, Joker smirks. The anger from before floods his body again at the gesture.

“Bats,” he says. “I didn’t expect you so soon.” Bruce remains silent, stoic as he assesses Joker’s body language. His back is straight, as always, and his legs are crossed at the thighs. Joker’s lips are chapped and his bottom lip is split due to excessive peeling of dry skin. His breathing is normal (perhaps a bit more energized since Bruce’s arrival), chest rising and falling in a distinct rhythm. His phantom-like eyes remain focused on the cards in front of him; a strand of formerly tucked hair falls in front of his face. The black of his pupils is jarring in comparison. Despite the lack of makeup, Joker has an otherworldly appearance. Now, just as predicted, the humanized illusion is shattered. The door buzzes and closes behind Bruce. He walks over and takes a seat at the metal chair across from him. His wrists rest on the edge of tabletop, gloves chafing awkwardly at the stillness. Almost irritated, Joker’s eyes pull away from the cards and meet with the ghostly white ones of Bruce’s cowl. “What’s the… _occasion_?”

“Joker,” The Bat speaks. “You broke your promise.”

“Promise?” Joker questions. “Oh Bats, you’re not making any” — Bruce clenches his fists — “sense…” Joker pauses and drops the cards on the table. He tilts his head to the side and gives Bruce a curious once-over. 

“I know it was you, Joker,” he says firmly. Images of the _J_ written in blood and the stains across the apartment enter his mind. The disgust boils over and laces his voice. “You weren’t very subtle.”

“When have I ever been subtle?” Joker retorts distractedly. A broad toothy smile stretches across his face. “I don’t see the point in it.” Bruce inhales deeply, desperately trying to swallow down the rage. Joker notices the restraint. “You’re angry… why?”

“You know why,” Bruce snaps. “Don’t play stupid.” Joker’s smile seems to evaporate. His lips part. His brows furrow in confusion. Silence is a rarity in the asylum but is offered quite freely for the moment between them.

“What happened?” Joker asks. It is devoid of amusement. It only spurs on the fury. 

“Barbara Kean. Where is she?” he demands.

“Kean? Jimbo’s wife?” Joker eyes him incredulously. “I don’t know… I haven’t seen her—"

“You were at her apartment. You shot your toy gun—"

“No—"

“You broke a vase—"

“I didn’t—"

“Then who did?” Joker is silenced and, for a while, he bites his tongue. Ever patient, Bruce waits until he is able to speak. 

“You’re not going to like this.” Joker swallows and sighs. “He visited me a few months back. He thought I didn’t recognize him. I didn’t think too much about it—"

“What did you do?” Bruce asks, slamming his fist against the metal table. He swears that Joker flinches at the action; the sight is so off-putting that Bruce immediately marks it away as some strange confabulation. A trick of his own eyes… a hallucination of sorts. Anything but real. But, Joker doesn’t abide by Bruce’s unsung rules. His expression softens, further betraying Bruce’s notions, and his phantom eyes widen. If Bruce isn’t biased, he would call that emotion genuine. 

“What I promised.”

* * *

_“Listen to me!” Bruce cried, shaking Joker’s shoulders. They were alone together, in one of Joker’s many funhouses; a plethora of mirrors distorted their reflections. Bruce could not contain his distress. His voice was rough, ragged, and desperate. “You’re not listening to me.” Joker stopped struggling from Bruce’s grip abruptly. His small ponytail loosened and fell with the sudden stillness, highlighted hair cascading against his metallic pop collar. Their eyes met with a shared sense of importance._ _The little voice inside Bruce screamed for him to stop touching him. He didn’t listen to it._

_“I’m listening,” spoke Joker softly. Bruce didn’t release his grip._

_“I’m asking you not to hurt them,” pleaded Bruce. “Whatever— whatever the cost, please… don’t hurt them.” Eyes knitted in that illusionary care, Joker pulls off one of his gloves. Cautiously, he raises a hand to meet Bruce’s at his own shoulder._

_“Why them?” Joker asked._

_“I know” — Joker’s fingers gently pulled Bruce’s hand away from his shoulder — “I know what’ll happen if you do.” Quietly, Joker nodded._

_“Tell me, Bats.”_

_“You die.” There was a moment of silence. Rather promptly, it was broken by Joker’s laughter. Bruce was far from amused. He was trembling._

_“Is that… is that really so bad?” Bruce swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Finally, he removed his hands, a tremor overcoming his movements. His cape swayed with the motion as he turned his back to Joker. “Isn’t that what’s best?” Bruce remained stoically silent. The emotion within begged to be released. Joker’s laughter subsided with the lack of reaction. “Bats?” Joker muttered. With zero response, Joker pried further. “Bats, stop it. This isn’t funny.”_

_“I’m not joking,” Bruce snapped. “This isn’t a joke.” Joker watched him in the funhouse mirror’s reflection. What it showed shocked them both to the core. Tinted by the black greasepaint, tears fall past the mask and run down his face._

_“Bats, are you— are you crying?” Joker reached out with his ungloved hand and pulled at Bruce’s shoulder. Easily, he turned to face him. Joker’s eyes bored into Bruce’s._ _His bulky body cowered away from the touch, betraying his menacing appearance. Bony fingers reached up to his face and grazed Bruce’s chin. The pad of his thumb brushed off the buildup of tears; he practically shivered under Joker’s touch. The act was effortless and gentle._ _His thumb raised and slipped beneath the mask. Instinctively, Bruce caught his hand by the wrist. Despite it, Joker continued to move his thumb and wiped away at the wetness, unafraid of the possible consequences. Bruce exhaled shakily and loosened his grip. “It’s alright, Bats. I’m not... I’m not going anywhere.” Bruce’s hand dropped to his side as Joker made no attempt to take off his cowl._

_“I can’t lose anyone else—"_

_“I know,” Joker whispered. “I know, Bruce.”_

_“Promise me, Joker,” he spoke. “Promise me.”_

_There was no deliberation._

_“I promise.”_

* * *

“James Junior,” Bruce speaks. The change in his voice is subtle. He isn’t angry but _afraid_. Joker uncrosses his legs and leans forward with his elbows propped up on the table, a sour expression on his face. His hands rest flat against his chin. Briefly, Bruce wonders if the effort to do so hurts his wrists. If it does, he doesn’t show it. A part of him wants to reach out— even _now—_ and take his wrist. He envisions what would happen if he did. If Bruce could take the chance, the leap, he’d take Joker by the wrist and pull him; he’d repeat the intimacy they once shared before, in the funhouse. Bruce would do anything to feel what he felt then. The consequences are what keep him blank-faced and still. The consequences are what keep him at bay. The consequences are what keep him in the cape and cowl. “What did he want from you?” Joker’s eyes pull away from Bruce’s. 

“Didn’t say. He sort of just observed me. I wasn’t sure what to do with the kid.” Bruce takes a deep breath, edging on shaky. Joker sighs and eyes Bruce’s fists. They are no longer clenched. “He took a few things too. That gun was one of them.” His icy eyes linger on Bruce’s hands as he begins to chew on his bottom lip. “So… you believe me, Bats?” 

“I believe you, Joker.” There is a moment full of lucky silence, ended with Joker’s exasperated groan.

“That’s _it_? You believe me?” Joker questions. “That’s all you need from me?”

_There are so many things I need from you._

“Yes,” Bruce says bluntly. Joker’s lips thin. His grimace lasts for a few moments before he throws his head back. Joker begins to laugh, the sound echoing within the confined space of the cell, and shattering the silence. It lacks the mirthful quality it usually has; Joker isn’t laughing because he finds any of it amusing. He is laughing because he _doesn’t_. Bruce cannot seem to leave the chair, despite knowing that he absolutely should. He stays there, stuck like a statue, watching him. Joker’s laughter soon subsides, chin resting atop his hands, as his eyes land on Bruce’s in a deadlock. His gaze is entrancing and all-consuming. If Bruce could compare it to anything, he’d say it’s rather like a virus. 

“You know… I love it when you _lie_ , Batsy,” Joker mutters. “You’ve never been a good liar.” Bruce narrows his eyes.

“I lie for a living—"

“But not to _me_ ,” he interrupts. Joker removes his chin from his hands and leans back in his chair. His face becomes rather menacing, devoid of any of the illusionary emotion Bruce saw before. “No, we don’t lie to each other. That’s not what we do.” Never before has Joker outwardly voiced his knowledge of the rules between them. To Bruce, they are meant to go unspoken. But, too curious for his own good, he chances an inquiry into Joker’s interpretation.

“And what do we do, Joker?” Bruce asks slowly.

“We put on a good show, don’t we?” Joker asks absently. His voice is quiet, deathly so. It is an unanswerable question. He leans forward again, arms stretching out. “I must say we make for a _very_ convincing performance. In fact, we’re so good at it that you’d think” — Joker reaches out, fingertips touching Bruce’s gloved ones — “we really _do_ hate each other.” Bruce cannot move or speak. His very bones feel glued to the chair. Words are caught and trapped within his throat. “Maybe once, we even did. But now…” he trails off. He studies the way Bruce’s body is reacting. “We’ve done it for so long and they’ve never known the difference. What will change now?” Joker’s fingertips graze past Bruce’s; effortlessly, his fingers slip in between Bruce’s and intertwine themselves. Bruce is stiff to it, completely unresponsive. “They won’t notice. No one will. No one ever has.” Bruce swallows. “Your secrets rest with me and me— I _lie_ for a living.” Joker’s eyes meet Bruce’s eyes, ensnaring him in an intense stare. He squeezes his fingers around Bruce’s, a falcon’s grip, begging him to remain within the cell. His heartbeat is thunderous, drowning out everything else but Joker. “Bruce,” he speaks softly. “Make the _choice_.”

* * *

When he rushes to Gordon’s two-story, it is raining. The night has overtaken the day and drenched the skies with fog-like clouds that hide the moon. The water ricochets against the Batmobile’s windows in thick sheets. Lightning strikes occur all across the skyline, delayed in sound but bright white against the darkness of the city. Gotham seems to be weeping. Bruce can only hope it isn’t mourning for the reasons he thinks it is. The atmosphere is unforgiving once Bruce exits the vehicle. The rain and the air are freezing, chilling his exposed face to numbness within minutes. He traverses alleys and grapples to the roof. Once he’s in front of it, he breaks the lock and kicks open the door. He slips down the steps with less practice and more brute force. Then, there is a hallway. The little light that captures the eerily silent space comes from the street lamps outside that enter through the open windows. The wood beneath his feet creaks. Quickly, Bruce uses his cowl to check for any heat signatures. 

Three are found at the end of the hallway. Bruce creeps towards it. All around him, his intuition is ringing with alarm. The same intuition that led him to Barbara Kean’s apartment with dread. That same dread seeps back into his stance as he walks forward. Fear and reluctance tell him to turn back, to _leave_. Bruce continues on, a certain stubbornness beckoning him forward. He doesn’t know the future, as much as he wishes he did. He knows how Barbara Gordon was paralyzed mercilessly at the hands of Joker. He knows how Bruce took Joker’s life. He took all the preventative measures he could. When the blood tests he ran at the cave confirmed it and the call to Gordon’s place went straight to voicemail, he had thought it. But, as he reaches the end of the hallway and his eyes land upon the scene, he knows that failure was definite and inevitable. Everything has been set in place, unchangeable and immovable from the very beginning, against Bruce. There is no more doubt.

Gordon holds his own son at gunpoint as James Junior holds his sister hostage. A butcher knife pokes closely to her neck. Desperately, she squirms against James’s hold. Unrelentingly, he keeps her in place. Bruce’s eyes drop down to the floor and find Barbara Kean. Her body is pale— almost hollow— and evokes a horrifyingly familiar odor. Etched across her face is a carved smile. Her eyes are wide open, forever left staring at the world around her. Her body is littered with puncture wounds, blood still oozing out in thick and slow-forming puddles. The heat signature didn’t pick her up because Kean is chilled. Gordon’s eyes brim with tears; his hold on the gun is shaky at best. The shared stare between father and son is unblinking. Neither Gordon nor James let up. It is only when Bruce removes himself from the shadows that his presence is acknowledged whatsoever.

“He’s finally arrived…” James speaks. His eyes lock onto Bruce instantly and a sickeningly peaceful smile forms across his face. Gordon’s eyes do not leave his son. “I thought you weren’t coming.” Bruce doesn’t speak or move. He assesses each and every possible weak point in his stance. He finds none. 

_He’s prepared for this._

“Batman,” Gordon speaks. “Do something.” The desperation in those words fuels his steps forward. The knife at Barbara’s throat tightens. James’ eyes are sharp and full of malice, all aimed directly at the Bat. Abruptly, Bruce halts. 

“Don’t try it… or I’ll _kill_ her,” he speaks coldly. The sound of breathing and whining are the only things Bruce can hear. Each rise and fall of Barbara Gordon’s chest is a number he begins to count. There is a frenetic rhythm to it, one that indicates the fear. In comparison, James’ breathing is steady and clear of any stress. He isn’t afraid; The Bat won’t be able to scare him. 

“Why?” Bruce asks. Despite his body and eyes remaining on his son, the question is clearly jarring to Gordon. But, James begins to answer.

“Because,” James starts calmly. “I wanted to do one bad thing. I’ve done so many good things all my life. I needed to see what it would be like if I did something I couldn’t come back from.” Gordon scoffs as his finger hovers unsteadily on the trigger.

“That’s damn right,“ snaps Gordon. James ignores his father, attention centered solely on Bruce.

“I figured it was time to take something away from myself too. Make it hurt me too, you know? But” — James nudges his body towards his mother’s corpse on the floor — “it didn’t really hurt me at all.”

“James,” Gordon speaks lowly. “Stop it.” 

“No, I didn’t really feel a thing. And-and it wasn’t like numbness either. It was like any other day. There was no change.” As he continues, Bruce’s hand slowly reaches down to his belt. “If I felt anything at all, it was more like relief. Because _now_ , I finally know what it feels like. Being good _and_ bad. I understand them both now.” Underneath her brother’s grasp, Barbara eyes her father. Gordon exchanges a knowing nod back her way. Bruce grasps the smoke bomb. “I wonder… do you know what it feels like?” he asks. “To be bad?”

* * *

# — II —

_It was a simple mission really. A parallel world sent out a distress signal and, naturally, Bruce responded to it first. None of the rest of the League were available and Bruce wanted to avoid Gotham at that moment. He wanted to put Joker in the back of his mind._ _The Watchtower was quiet when he used the inter-reality portal. The galaxy was so expansive and for a few moments, Bruce stopped to stare at it. In the vacuum of space, across the vast array of glittering stars, Bruce’s mind wandered. Here, there were no responsibilities. Planets spun and the sun fed them. He gazed at Earth in awe, stricken by the massive scale of the planet. The overwhelming blue, lush green land, and dusted cloud coverage rattled Bruce to silence. It was that moment, while staring at his homeland, Bruce thought of him. He thought of Joker— his eyes— and it was painfully confusing. It was the type of confusion that he just could never find the right description for. It was the type of confusion that was easier to walk away from. He did just that. Bruce entered the coordinates of the alternate Earth’s dimension and walked through the portal._

_It spun his body into another version of the Batcave, separating his atoms and reforming them in a vicious whiplash. Bruce analyzed his surroundings on the spot. It was deserted and the portal itself seemed to be lacking in upkeep. The displays were full of dust, the stone floors were cracked, the bats populated in surplus, and the giant penny showed signs of oxidation (indicated by the flecks of teal against the copper). Yet, Bruce knew immediately he wasn’t alone. The sounds of breathing alerted him to the unlit areas of the cave. But just before he flicked on his night vision, from the shadows, a figure emerged. In sheer shock, he lowered his hand back to his side. It was Diana, but not as Bruce knew her. She had shorter hair, cut at the nape of her neck, and a bulkier frame. Her costume was less theatrical than what Bruce was used to; her golden gauntlets created an armor that reached up to her shoulders and continued down her legs. Her body was more muscular and her face was littered with nicks and scars._ _She approached him with caution, strange darkness enhancing her gaze into an intimidating evaluation. From the leather sheath on her hip side, Diana pulled out her sword and pointed it in Bruce’s direction._

_“I sent out a distress signal for the League, not just” — Diana paused and chewed her cheek — “you.” Bruce narrowed his eyes, thumbing a Bat-a-rang. Her eyes scanned his body and his face with unknown intent. Seemingly satisfied by her own inspection, she lowered her sword and sheathed it. “You’re the one who hasn’t lost him yet,” she said casually._

_“What are you talking about?” Bruce responded. Diana smirked and hummed with a self-deprecating kind of amusement._

_“You’re going to deny this, because of what version I’m talking to,” she started. “I wanted to send your League a warning… about you.” Bruce didn’t flinch; it wasn’t the first time he had encountered a parallel version of himself who had used his grief for destruction._ _It was what came next that shocked him. “In my world, Barbara Gordon was paralyzed at the hands of the Joker. So… in a fit of rage, you killed him.” Bruce stilled, mouth tightly shut. “At first, we didn’t think much of it. We were naive. It wasn’t long before you— you Bruce… you lost it yourself. You killed so many people… and you killed most of the League. We built this portal— me and Barry and J’onn.” It felt too personal to be a lie. Bruce heard the genuineness in her tone. Her voice was rough and gravely, a smoky edge that Bruce had only heard on the streets of Gotham. “We called for help, from another dimension, and now… our Batman is dead.”_

_“Why did you call us?” Bruce questioned. She sighed heavily and adverted her eyes to the display behind him. Bruce knew the display well; as the cave was a replica of his own, the glass box behind him would contain a single playing card._ _Diana walked towards it and stared emptily at it through the glass. Her dusty reflection in it showed the age of everything in this world._

_“I wanted to warn as many as I could,” she said. “About you. You and the Joker.” Bruce’s eyes tracked her as she raised her hand to the glass and touched the glass. “We never saw it. Not in time at least. You… you need Joker. When our Bruce killed him, there was nothing left. We tried to convince him otherwise but he didn’t listen. We didn’t know—"_

_“Didn’t know what?” Bruce snapped. Diana turned away from the glass, eyes hard and distant._

_“You love him,” she spoke. She laughed again, with the mirthless quality from before. “We never saw it because we didn’t want to. It made things difficult… so we ignored it. We came up with all these convoluted_ _excuses, all until it was too late. I wanted to warn your world because you— I’ve been watching and you are just like ours.” She towered over Bruce with ease, waiting for Bruce to respond. But, words weren’t coming. “I never saw it because I thought he really did hate him. I thought that Joker hated you. I was blind. I still don’t really understand it.”_

_“How long have you been watching?” Bruce asked. Diana narrowed her eyes, almost confused._

_“Why does it matter? I know you—”_

_“Then you’d know I can’t kill him,” said Bruce. He rapidly tugged off his cowl and let it fall across his back. The rings of black around his eyes seem to silence her._

_“Yes, I suppose you can’t.” She reached out, almost in introspection. Bruce flinched away from her. In an instant, Diana retracted her hand. “Ours never wore makeup.”_ _He was silent for this revelation. Bruce never lined his eyes for the purpose of aiding his cowl. The white glowing eyes covered everything. He needed it for an entirely different reason, one he had never really contemplated until now. “Why do you?”_

_“Why do we do anything?”_ _Bruce shot back defensively. “Why were you stalking our world—"_

_“Because we’re human and we want to feel, Bruce. But the question is… what do you want to feel?” A deafening realization spread like a virus through his mind, releasing the repressed explanations in a few wicked words. Bruce didn’t understand it but he felt it, deep within his very core. The fear, the reluctance, the anger, and the traitorous compassion was undeniably linked to Joker. While the pain seemed shattering, Bruce could feel the tension of years of pent up feelings being released. His mouth moved before he could stop himself._

_“Free,” Bruce muttered. There was a long period of silence where Bruce was unable to speak or move, stuck in place. His regret and his turmoil kept him frozen. Diana didn’t move either. Her eyes were unblinking and the deep lines of stress seemed to disappear as her muscles relaxed. She was no longer on edge. Yet, Bruce couldn’t trust her. His hand kept the Bat-a-rang firmly in his grip. His nerves seemed to raise with her every movement. For the first time in a long time, Bruce felt truly afraid._

_“I think I understand it now,” said Diana calmly. “You are two of the same thing. Without the other, you just can’t survive. We learned that the hard way.” She produced a small smile, as if recalling a memory. Quickly, the emotion disappeared, only to be replaced with a raging resentment. “But your little game hurts people. It kills people, Bruce. Surely, you understand that?”_

_“Yes,” Bruce responded. “I do.”_

_“Then, you’ll let me end it,” she said. “You’ll let me come to your world and end him.” The silence rang in his ears; the many memories that plagued him all his life resurfaced, in full force. He saw his father and mother exiting the theater. He saw their murderer walking forward. He remembered how they stopped and spoke words he could no longer remember. He remembered the shots and their bodies collapsing to the alleyway’s concrete. He remembered his own body falling with them, knees bent and eyes wet. Then, he remembered the gunman running away; he remembered the way they took their last breathes. He remembered being alone in an alleyway, crying. He remembered, once his eyes were dry and he was still alone, he laughed. That laughter he would never forget. The sound of it echoed from the recesses of his mind, an unforgiving tone. Miraculously, and with ease, Bruce’s laughter started to blend with another’s. It was a comforting duet, one that kept Bruce going. It was one that couldn’t be taken away. It was one that he could not possibly go on_ _without. “And you will let me help you.” He smiled faintly— remorsefully. Hopeful, Diana smiled back. Bruce’s hand tightened around the Bat-a-rang._

_“I’m sorry.”_

* * *

Silence is the only answer James receives. Luckily, it isn’t because Bruce can’t answer. The smoke grenade drops and shrouds the room in a thick layer of fog. The smoke disorientates James enough for Barbara to lunge out of his grip— taking the knife by the blade with her— and slide across the smooth wood, slick with Kean’s blood. Gordon aims through the smoke and leans down to pull Barbara to her feet. Immediately, he pushes her behind him. Bruce stands still in place searching through the smoke for the heat signature. He finds the signature of both Gordon and Barbara in the opposite corner. James stares blankly at Bruce through the smoke, ever so methodically taking small steps in his direction; he is stepping away from Gordon and Barbara. Bruce watches him carefully, unsure of what his next move will be. He concentrates on his weak points and lists them in his head: knees, ankles, and neck. Those are the easy targets to incapacitate him. But, Bruce doesn’t move from his place. James fumbles through the smoke, seemingly frustrated. His father aims blindly as the smoke begins to dissipate. His eyes react to the movement of Gordon and James stumbles towards it. The sound of his footfalls reverberates in the room. Then, there are two flashes in the darkness. Two bullets are fired and hit their target. His body falls to the floor with an unsettling thud.

The smoke evaporates. James’ body convulses on the floorboards, next to his mother’s. The blood from the wound in his chest seeps through his sweater vest and onto the wood beneath him. The shot in his neck gushes with red, easily creating a puddle. The blood works its way to Barbara Kean’s and mixes with the darker fluid. Bruce cannot comprehend the image of it all. Gordon’s gun drops to the floor and Barbara rapidly leans down to grab it. She remains in the corner, holding one hand to cover her mouth and the other to aim the gun. The smell of metal is stronger than before. James’ lips are stained with coughed-up blood, a consistent stream flowing from the right corner of his mouth. Despite the pain, he doesn’t seem to process it. James feels it physically but can’t garner a reaction to it; he is devoid of any real emotion in relation to the situation. Bruce walks up to him but is prevented by Gordon. He fumbles to his knees and places a hand over his neck. He applies pressure to lessen the amount of blood pouring out of him. James doesn’t look at him. He only seems to be focusing on the ceiling above. The pattern is similar to the walls of Kean’s apartments. Quickly, his blood reaches Gordon’s position on the floor, marking his knees and pant legs with the blood. Bruce isn’t sure what to do. Every step he makes towards him, Gordon motions him away. They remain that way for what feels like an eternity.

Then, James stops breathing. The shaky rise and fall of his chest ceases. Gordon watches it with tears in his eyes. A shuddering sigh escapes him as he holds up his son’s head to his own. His bloodied hands rake through James’ ginger hair. Barbara slides against the wall to her knees and drops the gun, a soft cry erupting from her. Her injured hand paints her face with varying shades of red. Bruce knows better than to intervene. He checks James’ wrist, searching pointlessly for a pulse; he doesn’t find one. Then, absently, he checks his pockets. From within his sweater vest, Gordon pulls out the toy gun stolen from the Joker and tosses it aside. It falls in front of Bruce’s boots, stained with fresh and old blood. The image of the toy gun floods him with guilt and regret, but not enough to stop what he has already started. He can barely swallow his own spit. Gordon’s lips kiss James’ forehead with finality, the weight of it resounding throughout the room. Barbara’s cries grow loud and inconsolable. Bruce’s rigid stance stiffens. Gordon lowers his head and places it back down on the floor. His eyes give him one last look. His eyes are full of tears and in an instant, the moment Gordon rises, they are gone. He goes to his daughter and leans down. He offers out his hand and, wiping away her tears and sniffing, she takes it. Gordon hugs Barbara even if she doesn’t hug back. It is more for her sake than his own. Bruce looks at the dead and evaluates. There is nothing else left to do. As much as he could try, he cannot alleviate the Gordons’ pain. Instead, he tasks himself to taking the toy gun and silently alerting the police. Within a few minutes, the sirens blare and Bruce turns to leave. They don’t watch him go. He doesn’t want them to. Otherwise, they might realize what kind of man he truly is.

* * *

“Please,” Joker says softly. He tugs on the orange sleeves over his arms easily, back facing Bruce. “Don’t— don’t forget—"

“Joker,” Bruce speaks, buckling his belt. “How could I forget exactly?” His worried eyes release their tension and his lips turn upward in light amusement. 

“You know what I mean, Bats.” Bruce pauses. He swallows quietly and then tilts his head in Joker’s direction. Joker tugs at his bottom lip, tongue wetting it nervously. 

“I’m not forgetting.” He releases his lip and smiles shyly.

“Good.” Bruce doesn’t understand why or how the smile affects him the way it does. 

He smiles back.

* * *

The funeral is a torturous affair that Bruce can only look upon from afar. He hides behind a trench coat and hat instead of the typical cape and cowl. It is still daylight, despite the sunless sky. He watches as the raindrops cascade heavy on the priest and the Gordons. The preacher wraps up his elegy with a few blessings on the caskets. The two black caskets are lowered into the earth below. Barbara wears a black veil and a tight bun. But, what Bruce notices most is the single black glove; it is the same hand that grabbed the blade from James’ hand. Jim has deep bags beneath his eyes. On second glance, Barbara shares the same darkness beneath her eyes too. It doesn’t surprise Bruce that they haven’t slept. He hasn’t either. A pair of shovels are offered to them. Barbara snatches it out of the preacher’s hand and walks to her mother’s casket. Furiously, she scoops up dirt and piles it on the polished casket. For a few moments, Gordon merely watches. With a caring hand, the preacher pats him on the shoulder and offers him the shovel. Disheveled, he takes it and walks to his son’s grave. Barbara eyes him bitterly from the corner of her vision. He lifts the shovel and collects the first pile of dirt. Gordon pauses, shovel hovering above the casket. She stops abruptly, sticking the shovel into the ground angrily. 

“What are you doing?” she seethes. He drops the dirt in at the sound of her voice. A heavy sigh escapes his lips.

“Burying your brother,” he speaks roughly. Her face twitches with a raw emotion before returning to fury.

“He’s not my brother,” she spits harshly. “He’s a _monster_.” There is another long stretch of silence between them. Neither Gordon nor Barbara make any progress. Barbara’s soft features harden. Then, as she lifts the shovel back up, she continues. “I thought you knew that. _You_ were the one who shot him.” Jim stares blankly at the casket with a vacant face; his emotions are a mixture that Bruce recognizes but cannot possibly name. After she dumps a few more piles of dirt onto her mother’s casket, her father finally responds.

“Sometimes, you have to kill what you love.” 

It is then that Bruce knows he is no longer welcome here.

* * *

# — III —

It is the last day before Gordon retires. He stands at the top of the police department. Barbara is set to take his place and the public could not be more supportive of her lineage and legacy. Bruce suspects that this is due to Gordon’s stance on vigilantes like himself; he hopes it isn’t. Gordon still smokes but less often now due to Barbara’s incessant pestering. Yet, even on a rainy night like this, he manages to take a few puffs before he stubs it out under his foot. His trench coat and fedora deflect the rain. His glasses are fogged, covering his eyes from Bruce’s view. Before long, he finds himself behind Gordon. For a while Gordon remains silent, admiring the city from the vantage point. Then, without introduction or entrance, Gordon turns around and gives him a rough smile. The lines of stress and age are ever so present across his face. Bruce isn’t sure he can quite say the same for himself.

“Batman,” he greets. “Come to say goodbye?” Stoic, Bruce remains in place. 

“Something like that, Jim.” In response, Gordon nods in a stunted way. He is reluctant to acknowledge the distance between them, both physically and emotionally. It has never been addressed but Bruce knows exactly when it started. With the death of his son and wife, Gordon grew more involved in the cases themselves. Bruce understood it perfectly. He never wanted or desired to address it, either by accident or intentionally. Bruce walks forward and stands next to him, looking over the ledge of the department building. Below, cars and people pass. It is a limited amount of traffic, due to the early late hours. Tiny dots of life and light move on an endless and inconsistent path. In a way, Bruce finds the view relaxing.

“You know,” Gordon starts. “When I joined this precinct, I never thought I’d work with— um, well— I never thought I’d work with someone like _you_.” He rumbles with a low chuckle. Bruce doesn’t react much to it. He is waiting for where he is going to go with this. “I never thought a lot of things would happen… but I guess that’s life, huh?” He pulls his hands back from the ledge and places them in his pockets. “Life has a horrible way of throwing you in all the wrong directions though. I’m sure you can relate to that.” Bruce doesn’t comment. Gordon continues regardless. “It presents you with choices, choices that seem impossible to make.” The cowl hides the vulnerable emotion in his eyes. “But, if it helps, I thought I would share a tip with you.” Bruce keeps quiet, listening with attentiveness. “When— when James died,” Gordon speaks. “I always thought of whose fault it was. Sometimes, I’d blame you. Sometimes, I’d blame him. But, mostly, I blamed myself. I knew it all along, you know? There was always something off with him but I just pinned it on being a kid. But then… he never really grew out of it. He’d say and do things and I ignored it. And I blamed myself for what happened— for _years_. I convinced myself that I ignored it and because I ignored it, I let it all happen. It was all my fault. All through these years, I carried that guilt and burden. It plagued me and my decisions with no end in sight. 

“Then, miraculously, I had this _realization_. I remember the night too. You were off in a battle with Crane and I was left to fill out paperwork. It was a slow night to say the least. But, when I got off the clock and turned in, I saw Babs. She has these dark marks under her eyes now. The doctors said she has sleep apnea— I’m one to think she just can’t sleep too. Then… then, I got to thinking why she didn’t breathe. Maybe she has nightmares or— or maybe the doc is right? Or maybe she’s got sleep paralysis? Then, I thought a little harder. I thought about what probably would keep a girl so bright like her unable to breathe. And then, it all just clicked. I thought about _James_. About how he had hurt her. But I also thought about how she had been in a position where, maybe, _she’d_ feel responsible. I got to thinking in her view and it all made sense. Imagine, your brother— someone you grew up with and loved and trusted— holding a knife to your neck. You wouldn’t believe it either. Then, before you can even… before you can even process that, he’s dead. He’s gone... and by your own father no less. How do you even grieve? How do you cope? I sure as hell didn’t know. But— but what really bothered me was my next train of thought. I could just imagine her there, in bed, not able to breathe. Terrified, mournful, and _guilty_. She would feel guilty… just like me. 

“She’d lay there in bed, struggling to breathe, because she wasn’t the one who died. She wasn’t the one who suffered in the end. She was the one who was saved. She was the one who is still alive, stuck with these memories she can’t outrun. Stuck with these emotions she can’t ever realize fully. And yet, despite all that betrayal and pain, I know she still loves him. I know because… I do too. He was my _son_. We lowered his damn casket, for God’s sake. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about him every day that goes by. I know what he did was wrong and I know, if he were still alive, he’d probably never understand that. But, I realized, none of that mattered. Even after all he did, I still loved him. I still missed him. He probably wouldn’t understand that either. It took a long time to accept that. I hope Barbara will be able to do the same someday.”

For a long while, he looks out into the distance. Bruce doesn’t speak; he’d find it vulgar if anyone would. 

“I guess what I’m trying to say is it’s okay to care about the guys you put in the asylum. It’s okay to go easy on them sometimes. I know your— uh, philosophy is a little different from mine but, take it from me, they already get it bad enough in there. And, it’s okay if you mess up and you do something you don’t mean. Humans are bred to make mistakes, you know? This is how we survive in the first place. Without making mistakes, you’ll never know what you did right. I don’t want you to learn that the hard way like I did, okay?” Gordon looks in his direction, expecting some type of response. But, Bruce doesn’t answer. Tired and groggy, he turns away from the piercing white of his eyes. “Okay— yeah, I know. I’ve been talking at you. I get it. It’s just— it’s just been a long night is all—"

“Thank you,” Bruce says. “I’ll take it… into consideration.” Gordon shoots him an appreciative grin. Yet, as Bruce leaves Jim Gordon to watch over Gotham, he cannot help but think his advice comes a little too late. He drives the Batmobile inside the cave and sits within it for some time, pondering his options. It is with a deep resolution that he exits the vehicle, enters the cave, and drinks the substance. He knows what he needs to do next. 

Joker won’t be happy with him.

* * *

The sunset casts an orange hue all around the temple. With smooth skin and ageless grace, Diana Prince watches it. Her eyes are serene, perfect reflections of the disappearing light. She sighs quietly to herself and thinks of man’s world. In a few ways, she cannot lie to herself about missing it desperately. Often, Diana imagines all the things she could do if she remained in America. Here, on Themyscira, time moves ever so slowly. All around her, no one seems to grow old. Her fellow sisters display only their strongest attributes and hide away the few weaknesses they do have. Before, Diana hadn’t known any different. Now that she does, the island no longer feels like a paradise as it used to. The nostalgia associated with the memories of her childhood and younger self fill her with pervasive regret. 

Inside, Diana’s room is akin to an intricate painting. Her bed consists of a golden frame, forged from the finest blacksmiths on the island. The mattress is crafted from rope and laced with wool for softness. It is a far cry from the beds of man’s world. She thinks of their highly-threaded sheets and silk edged blankets with distant fondness. Stone columns stand at the balcony entrance and a smaller room adjacent to the bed stores all of her robes and garments. The ceiling of her room is a mural, —painted long ago — one her mother would pick stories from every night before tucking her in. Each and every god are depicted in detailed strokes. As such, her father resides among them, clad in ashen armor and brandishing a bloodied sword. Some days, she reminisces on the missed opportunity of getting to know him. Other days, she recalls his loveless words and malicious intent. He once attempted to invade the island and wipe out mankind entirely with endless war. Diana thinks upon her own naivety with the situation; she remembers with the utmost clarity how, when the sword at her hip shattered the sacred basalt portal into mere pebbles, Ares had faded into ash. Hippolyta once told her that the gods only assured death was being confronted by their own failure. Never once had she tried to reason or empathize with him during it all. That fact plagued her over the years with a crippling regret, culminating in her return to Themyscira and abandonment of the League. At the thought of the League, she thinks of Bruce. 

_I wonder what he’s up to —_

A knocking upon the door pulls her away from her thoughts. 

“Come in,” she speaks. As instructed, two sisters enter through the door. They are both dressed in battle attire, with spears and shields in their hands. When Diana turns and sees their armor, she grimaces. “What is going on, sisters?” The two exchange concerned looks. 

“Two men have landed on our shores,” the taller Amazon says. “But, they haven’t made any moves since. We think they may have been stranded.”

“Very well,” Diana says. “I’ll check out the disturbance myself.” Silently, the Amazons nod and turn to leave. When the door closes behind her, she allows herself to sigh. She enters the closet room and retrieves her familiar suit. With each article of clothing, Diana feels more like herself. It is as refreshing as it is depressing. Her tiara comes last, pinning her long bangs in place. Her hands grasp the lasso, sword, and shield with welcomed deja vu. Then, Diana goes back to the balcony. She leaps out into the air, flying with grace. Her long hair flows with the current of the wind. The sun is now gone and the skyline glitters with stars. The air is chilled from the surrounding ocean. As she flies, she passes over the villa of her sisters. Fellow Amazons watch her with both uneasy eyes and unabashed awe. They instill a growing desire to resolve their fear, just as she had felt when she saw the gawking faces of humans. She pulls her gaze away from them as she hovers above the island’s edge.

Upon the midnight-dusted shores, Diana searches for any sightings of who her sisters had mentioned. She circles the island, looking for the group of archers she is sure to find. The island is not welcome to visitors, much less men. It is a sacred and well-kept tradition among the Amazons to forbid any trespassers from learning of the island’s existence or so much as placing a foot upon its land. However, as Diana eyes two mysterious figures, her mind wanders from tradition. It settles on the unusual emotion of confusion as she approaches closer. As expected, the two are surrounded by fellow Amazon warriors. One of the trespassers carries the other in their arms intimately, the way grooms do to wives. The one who carries is surprisingly thin in comparison to the man he holds. From afar, his skin is quite pale. Briefly, Diana is reminded of what lies beyond Themyscira. She is reminded of a particular character she longed to forget. Yet, as she draws nearer, the reality of that world dares to defy her. Only a foot away, she can see the figures clearly now.

It is Joker, carrying Bruce in his gangly arms. The image alone is striking enough to make her pause for a few moments. Shock, as well as something quite close to repulsion, floods her senses. His clothes are off-putting in their simplicity. Joker wears a white tank top and a zipped-down, baggy blue jumpsuit. Even stranger, Joker appears to be wearing no makeup. His lips blend in with his skin. It almost makes him look _human_. But, Bruce remains in his Bat-suit. The state of Bruce in _his_ arms concerns Diana immediately. He appears to be unmoving and unconscious in Joker’s arms. The sight of his vulnerability alone fills her with blinding rage. She lands hard on the ground, sand kicking up at her feet. Practiced, Diana unsheathes her sword and walks forward, stopping only when the pointed tip is a millimeter away from his face. Her eyes bore into Joker. He doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t move.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right here and right now, clown?” He doesn’t answer, simply breathing in and out. Suddenly, Bruce seems to stir in his arms. He groans in pain and Joker’s eyes tear away from Diana’s to look at Bruce. Her sword lowers slightly at the sound. “Batman?”

“Come on. Stay with me, Bats,” Joker whispers. “We’ve made it.” Diana cannot process the words that leave Joker’s mouth. She steadies her sword and hides her emotion.

“Answer me, Joker.” He doesn’t look away from Bruce but manages to speak.

“He wanted to die here,” he answers quietly. “He gave me the coordinates.” Diana narrows her eyes. “Albeit, a little more reluctantly than I would’ve liked—"

“That’s impossible,” she says. She moves the blade closer. “You’re _lying_.”

“It doesn’t matter if you believe me,” he says lowly. “That’s the truth.” In his arms, Bruce moves again. Her face flares with rage.

“What have you done to him—"

“It’s— it’s true, Diana,” Bruce speaks shallowly. His white eyes are barely open, struggling with every blink to remain so. 

“Bruce, _darling_ , you’re not in speaking condition,” Joker says icily. Diana furrows her brows but keeps her arm raised, thoroughly unsure of what to do. The knowledge of his identity being known to Joker is something Diana hadn’t been prepared for. “Speak again and I just might—"

“How do you know his—"

“You really are not very helpful, are you?” interrupts Joker. Finally, he is looking at her and it is _jarring_. There is emotion in his eyes, something very different from amusement. It’s pure desperation, devoid of any other intent. It’s the first time Diana has ever seen it displayed on the man. “He’s _dying_. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. We’re here to _die_ , nothing else. Will you help us do that?” With tense breath, Diana lowers her sword and raises her hand to alert her sisters to do the same. Joker huffs out some unsavory words before he lowers Bruce’s body to stand. Diana steps forward to assist but Joker shoos her away in an instant. “Lead us somewhere private, will you?” Despite his grating demeanor, she does as told and leads them off the beach. She signals for her sisters to stay behind. Diana purposefully avoids the faces of her sisters, knowing the horror they must all display. It is a few minutes of walking, filled with the shallow breathing of Bruce limping, before they reach the edge of the forests. Once they do, Diana holds up an olive tree branch. Reluctantly, Joker steps through with Bruce. She allows the branch to fall after they pass. But as they continue walking, leaves and twigs crunching beneath their feet, Diana stops.

“Why is he dying?” asks Diana quietly. Joker stills in the lush forest, causing Bruce to halt with him. Green encircles them, vibrant and brimming with life. Even the lack of light cannot mask its sheer beauty. 

“Poison,” he mutters. “He gave it to himself.” Firmly, she walks forward and stands in front of Joker.

“Then, there must be an antidote.” Joker chuckles harrowingly. 

“Do you really think he would poison himself with something you could cure?” Joker spits. “He _wants_ to die.” Diana feels as though her world has become hollow. Words seem to escape her as Joker barges past her. He turns his gaze back to Bruce. “Where do you want it to be, Bats?”

“H-here is fine,” Bruce mutters breathlessly. They stand in a small grove, a large tree resting in the middle of the circle. Joker positions Bruce’s back to lean against the tree. Slowly, Joker lets go of him. Bruce slides against the tree until he touches the ground. Then, he allows his legs to spread out. Joker leans down next to him, sitting cross-legged, and reaches up to his cowl. Without any resistance, he holds his head back and removes the cowl from Bruce’s face. It falls to his shoulders and Joker eases his head back onto the tree. Bruce’s sharp features are exposed to the brisk and salty air, the dark circles of black around his eyes aglow with the full moon. His dark hair is silver at the sideburns, encroaching upon the top of his hair. It is the first time she has ever seen Bruce look _old_. It is hardly a believable sight.

“You said ‘ _we’re_ here to die’.” Diana pauses, almost flinching, and avoids eye contact. “Are you poisoned as well?” Joker laughs, the sound echoing in the quiet of grove.

“Honestly, I was hoping _you’d_ kill me.” It isn’t as funny as he makes it seem. 

“I won’t kill you, clown. I owe Bruce that much as least.” Joker snorts mirthlessly and licks his lips in a nervous way. His hand reaches out, capturing Bruce’s. Surprisingly, he allows it to happen. Diana doesn’t quite understand it or believe what she is seeing and hearing. It is all so jarring that she has trouble voicing it. But, somehow, Joker seems to read between the lines. Diana guesses it must be the wideness of her eyes.

“You have questions,” Joker speaks. “Shoot ‘em, princess. The floor is all yours.” She walks to a boulder adjacent to them and takes a seat on it, setting down her weapons in the process.

“What happened?” she starts. “How did he get to this point?” Joker’s irritated frown vanishes. His eyes meet hers.

“Honey, he’s always been like this,” Joker answers. “All it took was a little push.” Her brows crease in a deeply affected way as she looks to Bruce. She swallows harshly and nods, turning back to Joker. “But, if he’s going to die, he isn’t going without me.” He rumbles with a brief and bitter amusement. Diana’s confusion only prevails.

“Why… why here?” Rather abruptly, Joker seems to contemplate this question much harder than the others. Only when he finds the right words, does he answer.

“I just— I just _knew_. I knew this is where he’d want to be.” There is a tone to his scratchy voice that feels real. It should feel the opposite way; it should feel fake. Her emotions toss her back and forth, ultimately making Diana entirely ambivalent and completely lost. 

“I thought you hated each other,” she says quietly. It is meant more for herself than anyone else. Joker is silent… until he’s not. It is a gradual build from chortle to borderline screaming. His laughter is loud and unfiltered, a barking tenor that Diana is sure reaches every end of Themyscira.

“Oh,” he says in between the laughter. “Oh, that’s funny!” Tears escape the corners of his eyes and slide down his white face. “And here I thought I was the comedian—"

“This isn’t funny,” she snaps. Joker’s laughter abruptly cuts off. Conversely, he is the one that looks offended. Diana swallows dryly.

“You assume I’m not reading the room right now. You think I don’t understand the situation. But, you see, I understand it perfectly.” His eyes sear Diana with every second they remain concentrated on her. But, rather suddenly, their intensity dies down. Joker sighs and wipes away at the dampness his tears left behind. A solemn expression overtakes his face. “When you’ve lost it— like _I_ did— reality becomes little more than a plaything. It’s something at your disposal. Nothing is at stake and nothing is interesting. So, you try to bend the fabric a little. You try to make it interesting again. A few murders to start. A couple massacres to follow. Morals become void. Everything becomes void. The acid was just the cherry on top of the cake.” He smiles bittersweetly and rests his voice shortly, looking over to Bruce. “But then— then, he appeared! A pesky little rodent that wouldn’t let me play with lives. Wouldn’t let me tear at the fabric. He was infuriating. I hated him for it. I hated him for everything that went wrong. Yet… the more I prepared for him, the more it became fun. The chasing and fighting were addictive. I kept provoking him for a reaction rather than anything else. The plans became less about murder and more about attention. I hated him for that too. He’d always catch me, one way or another. But, when I was locked up, I had something to look _forward_ to. I had something to anticipate. I had _something_. It tethered me back to reality faster than I could say ‘Bats’! So, the guilt and the hopelessness all came back in waves. The morals fumbled back too. I hated him most for that. Still do if I think about it long enough. But, that hatred sort of _twisted_ with time. There was this new desire growing within me; I wanted to be the only thing in his world. It was around that same time he started to distance himself from me. He picked battles with others over me. He chose your stupid little league over me. I thought about all the different ways I could do it. But, none of them seemed to work. Nothing could keep his attention, no matter how devastating. 

“His mind was preoccupied with something else. I believed it was _someone_ else. Someone better than myself. Someone _normal_. I searched for someone, anyone, to pin it on. I killed a few models I’d seen on his hip before. I even thought about killing _you_ a few times. Then, he visited me one night. He had done something, I could tell. Something” — Bruce squeezes Joker’s hand — “unforgivable.” Joker pauses as Bruce nods, urging him to continue. “He didn’t need to say it but he had in— a _different_ way. I realized he needed me just as much as I needed him. A tether to reality, a guilty conscience… a spark of hope. Then, I began to question _why_ we needed each other. That took a lot longer for me to understand. It took _Brucie_ over here quite a bit longer than myself! And… eventually, I figured it out. We needed each other because— beyond the fights and plans and masks and makeup— we both needed someone we could _rely_ on. Someone who’d always be there, no matter what. Someone we could trust to stay alive, just for us. I debated with myself frequently on what that meant too. I think I listened to a song or something when the fireworks started to burst in my head. We couldn’t live without each other. I made excuse after excuse just for the Bat to come knocking. And he’d respond to every call, even when I wasn’t causing trouble. It was an excuse to see one another. To breathe the same air. There was always a tension there, be it desire or _something else_. Somewhere along the line, I confronted him about it. Bruce didn’t need to say it that time either. From then on, we both sort of knew. It’s gone on ever since. No one ever found out either… until _now_.”

Diana had dreams like this moment. Dreams where something inexplicable and frightening happened that she simply could not explain. This moment— Joker’s story— felt like that: a dream. It was a twisted and thorny Amazonian myth, told in the assured smoothness of Joker’s voice. His words had a genuineness to them that she was unprepared for. They weren’t the mad ramblings of a lunatic or a sociopath. They were normal and, more than anything, they terrified her. Experimentally, she squeezes the fingers that rest on her own knees, nails scratching into her skin. Desperately, she wants to wake up now. The sting ensures that the present time is real, not some dream or figment of her own demented imagination. But as the physical sting fades, the emotional sting still pulses. She feels her face grow hot. Betrayal, anger, resentment, confusion, and (most of all) regret resound across her mind. Diana regrets not knowing sooner; she regrets her blind acceptance of the way things were presented. Over the course of her life, she has thought herself naive. But, never did she think she was _this_ naive. Bruce is disinterested in Joker’s explanation by the looks of it. His eyes are occupied solely with the stars above. Tears blur her vision as she singles out her biggest regret. Diana only knows the real Bruce when his time has run out. They slide down her face with grace, silent and picturesque. Her feelings are put aside as they fall. She has so many questions to ask but finds she can only voice one more. It takes all of her strength and courage to do so. 

“Do you love him?” A whistling wind blows through the trees and causes the leaves to sway. Joker, again, appears offended.

“Yes. Of course, I do,” Joker answers, disgruntled. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“I’m glad then,” she speaks quietly. Joker’s brows furrow, confused and shocked. “I’m glad he will pass with someone who loves him.” She offers Joker a small smile, despite the disgust that the gesture arouses within her. Joker seems almost afraid of it. “He shall have an Amazon’s burial.” Bruce seems to protest that, groaning softly. His eyes drop down to meet Diana’s.

“N-no,” Bruce blurts. “I-I can’t.” Diana stands from the rock and walks over to him. She kneels down and unsheathes her sword. Joker watches apprehensively as the sword is wedged into the earth below. “I shouldn’t be h-here. I don’t d-deserve—” 

“What are you doing?” asks Joker. Diana doesn’t answer any of their pleas. Instead, her hand remains on the handle of the sword. Her eyes flutter shut and her head tilts down in heavy contemplation. Slowly, the pierced earth around the sword’s tip begins to flare with rays of ethereal light. Joker watches with concern and awe as the sparks fly. 

“Moirai, sisters and deliverers of fate, I call upon you.” Piercingly bright and golden light begins to outline the blade of her sword from the ground below. “I call upon you in the aid of this mortal, Bruce Wayne.” With this declaration, the light continues to line the blade. “I reason with you sister Lachesis, extend his time; allot him with the amount necessary to say his final goodbyes to those he loves.” The blade fades into a beam of light itself, contained in the form of the sword. Undeterred, she goes on. 'I plead with you, sister Atropos: give this mortal a painless death. Ease his suffering and allow him to speak his mind with honesty and rapture.” The light that trails and lights the sword travels up Diana’s arms. The light is akin to a coil of smelting gold, burning into her skin one lengthy and jagged scar. “I ask of you Moirai to let his soul roam with my sisters in the plane of the Elysian Fields. Grant him an everlasting afterlife among those he cherishes most.” The coil of light wraps around her entire body. At the very same moment that the scar surrounding her body connects, Diana’s eyes shine with bright golden light. Her very presence emits such a powerful glow that Joker is forced to shade his vision. He stands suddenly, covering his eyes with his arm.

“Take me with him!” Joker pleads. “ _Please_ !” A moment of tense silence overtakes them. Diana cannot see him or fully register his cries. Joker’s voice is barely a whisper. Her vision only shows Bruce, among a gold reflection of the grove. She thinks of all the curses and vengeance she could inflict upon the clown. She imagines how she would be praised and honored by everyone he has ever wronged. Then, she dips down her head and looks at Bruce— _truly_ looks at him. His body is weak and slack with the poison’s influence, untouched by the gold. She doesn’t see the calculating hero or the brooding loner. What she does see is a man, complex yet understated, gasping his last breaths of air. She sees Bruce suffering, groggily turning his head to his right. Diana looks along with him. It is where Joker is standing; but, neither of them can see him standing there. Bruce stares, unaffected by his new surroundings. Despite it, his emotions pierce Diana deeply. A golden tear falls down his face. It is with his silent wish that she finally understands. She sees herself in Bruce’s place. Tears rolling down her face and staring across the golden reflection, she can hear the pleas of a voice awfully familiar. Now, with unjust certainty, Diana knows what to do.

“And finally, sister Clotho,” Diana speaks definitely. Her tone sounds more somber, as if unsure of the repercussions of her next plea. “Shorten the time of his lover—”

“J-Jack— Jack Napier—" Bruce mumbles harshly.

“Jack _Napier_. Let them die alongside one another and, together, allow them to reside peacefully among the souls of my fallen Amazons for all eternity.” Joker is still in place, unbeknownst to either of them. Diana lifts the shining sword from the ground and places the flat side of the blade on Bruce’s shoulder. The light around the blade surrounds Bruce, outlining him in the same golden beams. As it does, Bruce’s eyes become alight with the same bright encompassing light as Diana’s. She retracts the sword from his shoulder and sheathes it at her hip side. “Touch his hand, Joker, and this shall be made true.” Joker rushes over to Bruce and leans down. His hands embrace Bruce’s face first. The golden coil wraps around Joker from his hand and trails along the outline of his body. Slowly, his form develops into a golden reflection that Bruce and Diana can see. Then, as the coil connects around his whole body, he is transported fully. His thumb wipes away at Bruce’s tear. Her eyes follow the gesture with an unrecognizable expression. She looks up to the sky, putting behind her the flood of emotions. “I thank you, sisters. Your great offering will be repaid. You need only to ask.”

“Batsy…” Joker speaks. “How did you know my name?” Now, able to speak clearly, Bruce’s voice echoes through the golden reflection. 

“It never mattered.” Joker smiles and chuckles, the sound cascading across Diana’s senses. Bruce moves, causing Joker to stand. He rises to his feet with ease now, walking with thunderous steps toward Diana. Joker seems to reach out for a brief moment; Bruce stops him in place with just a finger. Bizarrely, Joker obeys his request. He stops a foot away from Diana. “I-I don’t deserve this,” says Bruce. His voice is rich and untainted by the heaviness she is used to. “I’m so sorry, Diana.” 

“I know,” Diana speaks quietly. Bruce doesn’t mind her unease. Instead, he walks forward and captures her in a tight hug. She is hesitant to recuperate it. Then, he says something that shatters her opposition.

“Thank you,” Bruce whispers. With a heavy heart, Diana’s rigid arms relax and eventually come to wrap around Bruce’s shoulders. She leans her head into the crook of Bruce’s neck, squeezing her eyes shut. “I wish,” he starts. “I wish there was some way I could tell you—” Diana pulls away from Bruce, opening her eyes. Her hands remain on his shoulders.

“You don’t need to… I– I understand, Bruce.” She manages a somber smile. Bruce returns the smile with remarkable enthusiasm. His skin and clothing start to flicker with sparks at his feet. Shiny gold replaces them in a gradual process. She removes her hands from his shoulders and steps back, keeping her smile. Bruce’s contentment seems to falter as she does. Immediately, Diana reassures him. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there one day” — she looks over to Joker — “but until then, you’ve got company.” He smiles widely, humored. Joker joins Bruce’s side, taking a hold of his hand. He nods slowly at her. The gold begins to overtake Joker as well, sparks flying along with the spread. Soon, Diana can feel her feet spark too. She is disappearing. Bruce and Joker watch her intently. “Goodbye, Bruce.”

“Goodbye, Diana.”

Then, in an instant, she is transported back to the grove. The darkly shaded colors of nature take her time to readjust to. Her surroundings have remained the same since she left. Ashes now reside where they once stood in the golden reflection. Diana is suddenly aware of the sting of her new scar. Her body is now marked with a shining golden line. It wraps around her wrists and travels up her arm and past her shoulders. It runs along the sides of her legs and wraps around her ankles. Oddly, it feels just the same as her own skin. The breeze of the ocean travels through the grove, blowing away the ashes into the air. They whip past Diana and follow the wind’s path without question. Her eyes follow the path they tread towards the stars. Quietly, she wonders if she made the right choice. 

* * *

Without hesitancy, Diana enters the temple. 

Inside, the portal is broken. The history behind it lingers unspoken and untouched since the decades of its occurrence. It used to be a gateway once; it once used to be the only way of making contact with her father. The tarnished stone is sparsely covered in vinery and moss. Echoes of her father’s desperate cries and his offering hand. His hatred for her refusal and subsequent betrayal replay within her mind. A part of her still wonders what would have happened if she _had_ joined him. War and the definite destruction of everything she ever loved are what she had reasoned at the time. She quiets those thoughts quickly as she passes through the doorway. Upon a column of basalt, placed in the middle of the once active portal, Diana sees the last remaining piece of her father. His helmet rests silently on the column, neglected with age and nature. Cobwebs and dust surround the surface of the column, as well as the exterior of the helmet. Sharp angles and dented metal shape the helmet’s appearance. Ares, the god of war, has been reduced down to merely his helmet alone. All with one decision, Diana stole any chance of his legacy. He wanted her by his side. He wanted them to create memories, even if they were tainted by his own horrific ambitions and narcissism. She swallows deeply as she places a cautious hand against the metal. 

Her mother told Diana the story time and time again. In the same grove— where Bruce and _Jack_ had faded into ash— Ares appeared with a mere snap of his fingers. Banished to Earth by Zeus after his tirades in Olympus, he had traveled all around the Earth and observed mankind. Finally, he was ready to meet the fabled Amazons of Themyscira. Immediately, he was greeted by an ageless woman. Hippolyta sat on the same rock Diana had sat upon mere weeks before, long blonde hair resting against her shoulder and golden armor protecting her body. She rose with fear and reluctance, unsure of his intentions. Quickly, she called for her sisters and they apprehended him with ease. Ares was secured in the deepest part of the Amazon’s prison. But, it wasn’t long before Hippolyta’s curiosity took the better of her. Despite his strength, and ability to leave any time he desired, Ares stayed within the cell; he waited for her every day, yearning for her banter and kind eyes. Hippolyta remembered that the most: he always admired her eyes. But one fateful day after their intimacy had reached its peak, the god disappeared from his cell, never to be seen until the day of his demise. As a child, Diana did not understand why he could have left her without any cause or reason. When she became an adult, her resentment had grown strong and unwavering. Even now, some part of her soul still wants to shatter the helmet in her hands. But, as she grew older, her understanding changed. 

Living among mankind taught Diana the ease at which mistakes can be made. Bruce was a prime example of such mistakes. Mortals and gods alike all suffered from the same imperfections. Ares put himself before the family he could have had. His flaw was his lust for violence and conflict. It is what inevitably led him down the path of failure and death. Flaws exist within everyone, including herself. Her own naive selflessness had contributed to the outing of her sisters to man’s world many years ago. Bruce’s flaw, if Diana is to guess, was his avoidance of confronting his grief. That same grief corrupted the caring soul into a creature of the night, always looking for the man in the alley to exact revenge upon again and again. Joker— or rather, _Jack—_ had too many flaws for Diana to count. If she could pinpoint just one, his detachment from reality was his greatest flaw. Together, their shared flaw was ever coming to understand the other. Their understanding and, ultimately, _empathy_ for one another is the same mistake her mother made with her father. Strangely, at that moment, Diana can remember how Joker looked at Bruce. His phantom eyes often shook something deep within her, reminding her of lost souls roaming around the Underworld. Yet, when he begged for Diana to take him with Bruce, she saw something entirely different. His eyes showed many different emotions she had never seen before: grief, desperation, fear, stress, and _longing_. Those same emotions she remembered seeing in the eyes of her father as she plunged her sword into the portal, taking his life. That is precisely when it clicked for her.

She is no different from Bruce.

Her hands remove the cobwebs and dust from the helmet with immense care. She studies the helmet in her hands and then, without any other thought, places it atop her own head. Inwardly, she sighs out years of constrained regret and stress. Relief seems to flood her instantly, close to overwhelming her with joy. A smile forms across her lips, withheld but still present. The sound of her chuckle echoes within the temple’s aged stone walls and columns. The lasso on her hip illuminates the room in a golden light, a smaller glow than the piercing golden rays of the grove. Tears roll down her dewy face as she exits the temple and looks up into the starry night sky. Life hums all around her in a gloriously harmonious tune. She inhales deeply and spins in place. The armor she once stole from her mother’s palace sticks to her skin all the same as the first time she donned it. Her mother greets her by the guardian statues at the entrance of the temple. Her smile is kind but reluctant, the same as always. She takes Diana’s hands in her own and admires the helmet on her head.

“Are you sure you’re ready to return to man’s world?” Hippolyta asks. “They might not accept you as they did before.” Diana nods quietly and offers her mother a reassuring smile.

“I’m ready, Mother.” They part, with hesitation on Hippolyta’s part. Diana steps backward, lifting off softly from the ground. “Goodbye,” she speaks finally. Then, she flies away into the darkness and glittering stars. But, her mother stays behind, watching until she can no longer see her at all. Only then, she returns the sentiment.

“Goodbye, Diana.”


End file.
